


The Prick

by banjjakbanjjak



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Language of Flowers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:54:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28314141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banjjakbanjjak/pseuds/banjjakbanjjak
Summary: The Language of Flowers – a code through which one could express just about anything with a bouquet, be it simple or extravagant.But what about the stems? Long, thin, and prickly for the most part – always discarded for the soft beautiful buds atop? What about them?What about people like Baz?
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 31
Kudos: 108
Collections: Secret Snowflake 2020





	1. The Cute Meet-Ugly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xivz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xivz/gifts).



> Merry Christmas to the lovely [xivz](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/xivz/pseuds/xivz/works). You're so effortlessly wonderful and I hope this short little gift demonstrates just a fraction of how happy I am to have met you and blessed to call you a friend. 
> 
> Onward to the fic!

_Lavenders. Check._

_Peonies. Check._

_Eucalyptus. Check._

_K’s Christmas Secret Snowflake Extravaganza Arrangement. Done_.

I do a headcount of how many orders are due to for pick up today, and how many of _those_ arrangements I have left to do. It’s more than I’d like to admit, and that means less time for me to slack off work and go back to my books.

_Company Law and Christmas orders are going to be the death of me_. _And it’s barely November._

It’s during moments like this when I _hate_ myself for taking up a part-time job I have no need for. Dev balked at the idea of me working – period – and Niall just laughed at me, saying I’d be the most terrifying florist in London.

After that I didn’t even bother telling them why I took the job.

Truth is I needed an excuse to get out of the library. With the exception of Freshers Week, I’ve gone there every day for the last two years whilst other students went about and actually _lived_. I did try in second year to force myself to take breaks and days off, but without fail, I’ll succumb to the siren song that is my lecture recordings.

A job – a _commitment_ – would change that.

Two months on and here I am, agonizing over my half complete notes behind the till whilst I wrangle some poisonettas into yet _another_ Christmas arrangement. I know full well stressing about my schoolwork and studying behind the till defeated the purpose of me taking this job, but…baby steps.

Objectively, I know I’m doing well, one of the best law students – coasting on Firsts, a training contract waiting for me after graduation. All I had to do was not fuck up this year. Hell, I could probably get away with a 2:1, but I’d never hear the end of it from Father or Fiona.

I slot in one final sprig of holly into the foam base and park it to the side. Finally freed from my self-inflicted employment to do some self-inflicted mind boggling with the Companies Act. At this point, I question every decision I’ve made since 18, and curse at the fact that they were all out to sabotage myself.

Just as I get back into the rhythm of trying to make sense of Directors’ Duties, the tell-tale ring for the bell behind the door goes off and I go on autopilot, “Welcome to Petty in Bloom,” parroting the standard greeting whilst I pull myself from my books to look at the intruder.

I’m met with lost, clueless and slightly panicked blue eyes. I raise my eyebrow at the man (which Ebb has warned before tends to scare people away), and wait for him to speak. But no words come out, he just continues to stare at me like a deer caught in headlights, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. It’s like he was waiting for subtitles to pop up to tell him what to say.

I’d be more hostile if he wasn’t so damn attractive. He had broad shoulders, a strong jaw and chin, covered with an impossible smattering of freckles and moles. He looked like every other closeted boy’s first crush at school. In fact, I’m comfortable enough with myself to admit that he _would_ be my first crush if I ever saw him at school only to be destroyed to find out he’s straight.

Knowing my luck, the man standing in front of me _right now_ was another clueless straight man looking for an apology bouquet to his well-to-do girlfriend.

Realising I’ve just been staring down this new customer, who still hasn’t made an effort to articulate his thoughts into actual words, I clear my throat to break the silence, “Can I help you?”

“I, uh, I need. I’m looking for, um,” he was tripping over is own words and I hate myself for it but I’m running out of patience.

“Use your words.”

“I need flowers,” he blurts out.

_There we go, you beautiful idiot_.

“Well you’re at a florist so, well done.”

“Are you always such a prick?”

“Yes,” I say, “And it seems you found your words, so. Again. Can I help you with anything? I have other things to tend to.”

“Yeah, sure looks _busy_ here,” the sarcasm isn’t lost on me, but I’m rising above it. So I just fold my arms and look at him, unimpressed and bored already. “I need a bouquet…for my girlfriend. Well not girlfriend, we broke up, but – ”

_Just my luck._

“Budget? Or, rather how apologetic are you?”

“Pardon?”

“The bigger the bouquet, the more sorry you are. And also the more expensive it is,” I say bluntly.

He runs his hands through his curls, pulling gently at the ones on the nape of his neck, and I hate that I notice the little bit of pink creeping up from his (ugly and oversized) jumper, “What if I have nothing to be sorry for? I just…want her back.”

I click my tongue and swivel around towards the collection of flowers we have, hoping he knows to follow. “Red roses,” I say pointing at the bucket “enduring passion.” He nods at me along with a non-committal hum so I pick up eleven (symbolising a _treasured one_ ) and continue on. “Dahlias – lasting bond and commitment. And camellias, admiration and adoration.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, “Is that it?”

“Depends,” turning to face him and the buffoon nearly crashes into me, “is there anything else you want to say.”

“I think… _that_ says enough, right?” he waves at the flowers in my hand and flashes me this stupid, _infectious_ grin. I stop myself before I start to smile back at him. 

“If you think they’re enough then, by all means, follow me,” I go up to the till, somewhat excited to see his face when I ring up his grand total.

“Thanks,” he says, “I’ve never bought flowers for anyone.”

“Well ain’t she lucky then,” I mutter under my breath, “That would be £73 please.”

His jaw drops and I’m ashamed to say just how much delight I derived from that, “You’re bloody joking.”

I take a swig of my now cold coffee, wincing slightly at the syrup that pooled at the botoom, “But what price can you put on _true love_?” I once saw someone at Disneyland rinse some kid’s parents of money with a well-timed guilt trip, and judging the reluctance with which he was pulling out his wallet, I’d wager I’ve succeeded as well.

I punch the amount into the card machine and wait for the beep, “Name? So we know who you are when you come to pick them up.”

“Simon Snow,” he says and I raise an eyebrow at the ridiculous name, but bite my tongue, “How long will it take? Kinda in a hurry to get to her. And I’m getting the feeling you want me out of your hair as soon as possible.” 

My eyes dart to my textbook and printouts and draw in a deep breath because he was right – I wanted him out of here quick, “If you could wait twenty minutes, I’ll have it ready. Here’s my number, I’ll call you when they’re ready.” I pass him a Post-It note and his receipt.

“Great.” The payment goes through, and he takes my number, but just _stands_ there. When I look at him with furrowed brows he just shrugs, “It’s only twenty, no point leaving.” Realising my plan to get him out of here has not paid off, I roll my eyes at him and take the flowers from the counter and head into the back, dragging my feet. Let no one say I don’t take my job seriously, no matter how frivolous it is.

Trimming thorns is easy enough once you get used to it, and I have an uncanny ability to muddle my way through with a veneer of knowing exactly what I’m doing, hence me making a hack job to the stems of these poor roses. And because I’m in a bad mood and slightly spiteful (for no reason except that he’s clueless, but still trying his best to get his girl some flowers), I leave one of the roses untouched – thorns in tact.

It’s petty and juvenile, but I think that’s pretty on brand with the name of this flower shop. And judging from how rough his hands looked, I doubted he’d even feel the thorns even if he grabbed a fistful of them.

Before long, I’ve created an inoffensive, unoriginal and utterly pleasant bouquet of flowers that screamed desperation and simplicity. The Language of Flowers may help with delivering a coded message, helping people communicate concepts that some words just can’t quite capture, but they’re the prop.

Whatever Snow wanted to say to his girlfriend, he’ll need to say it himself with his own words.

And as much fun as it would be to watch him stumble over a clunky speech, I know better than to pursue _that_ line of thought because I’m sure whatever he says, I’ll find endearing (damn his blue eyes and his…whole deal).

When I emerge from the back, he practically pounces on the counter, looking shocked at the bouquet in my hands. “You did that?”

“It’s my job Snow.”

“It’s Simon.”

“I know,” I say as I hand him the bouquet, “but it’s less ridiculous than Snow.”

“What’s your name then?”

I smirk, “What’s it you called me? Prick?”

He narrows his mind at me and gives me a once over – scoping out his enemy as it were. Yes, I’ve decided we are enemies over our short exchange. But nothing comes from it and he eventually backs away from the counter, “Well thanks for this…prick. Going to wish me luck?”

“No. Shan’t,” I say as I settle back behind the till and failing to register the wall of words in front of me.

I hear the bell go, but when the door doesn’t close as expected I look up to see him looking at me with his grin again. I’m about to get up and when I feel my phone vibrate. He waggles his eyebrows at me and I’m just bewildered.

**_UNKNOWN NUMBER_ **

**_You know you wear a nametag right?_ **

I don’t dignify him with an answer and delete the number, telling myself it’s for the best I keep the distraction that is Simon Snow out of my life.


	2. The Accidental Text

**_UNKNOWN NUMBER_ **

**_pen im fucking bricking it_ **

My phone vibrates, and I can already feel the judgement coming from other students in the library. I read the message again, then once more to make sure. I conclude that I have no idea who this person is and set my phone down again, but my interest was piqued. And so, despite my better judgment, I respond.

**_Who is this?_ **

The reply comes almost immediately.

**_shit_ **

**_wrong person_ **

**_sorry_ **

****

**_How did you get my number?_ **

****

**_u gave it to me?_ **

**_r u being a prick again?_ **

****

My stomach does a little flip because I know exactly who this is. He’s the only person I’ve given my number to recently, and the only one that outright called me a prick to my face (Dev and Niall don’t count, especially not when they’re sleeping together and just trying to sexile me from our flat most days).

Then a thought crosses my mind – was Snow nervous about delivering the bouquet? And more importantly – did he really rush me to finish that bouquet only to leave it for an entire day?

I ignore the little skip my heart does when I notice he’s saved my number.

**_its simon btw_ **

****

**_I figured._ **

**_I assume you’ve not given her the flowers yet?_ **

****

**_what?_ **

**_oh that_ **

**_yeh didnt go well_ **

**_flowers look good tho_ **

**_pen likes them_ **

****

**_Can you not send more than five words in a text?  
Or do you just like blowing up my phone?_ **

I have no why idea I’m still texting him, and as awful as I am as a person, I still feel slightly bad for him that his big gesture didn’t work out - £73 is steep, especially for a student. Then I remember I’m constructing an entire narrative in my head over a guy I spoke to for half an hour (twenty minutes of which I was making his ex-girlfriend a bouquet).

**_So what is it you are panicking about?_ **

I all but throw my phone back onto the desk, the noise it makes as it makes contact with the desk earns me an actual hiss from the girl sitting across from me accompanied with an impressive glare through her cat eye glasses.

I roll my eyes at her before redirecting my attention my lecture recording, trying to make sense of Jurisprudence. I catch out of the corner of my eye that Cat-Eyes has a visitor. Turns out for her all her posturing and hissing she was not above having a full blown conversation in the library in that awful whisper that is more disruptive than it is considerate.

“I just need your help, very quickly, please Penny.”

“I’m _busy_ ,” it sounded more like a plea than a stern warning, a plea to be left in peace.

I was about ready to return the favour with a snarl of my own, but when I looked up, there Snow was, perched on the side of Cat-Eyes’ desk, pouting and everything. How someone so _plain_ could encompass so much charm was beyond my tired brain, and I catch myself staring at him _yet_ _again_.

“Shit, Baz, didn’t know you studied here!” Snow attempts to whisper excitedly.

The keyword here is _attempt_ , and I can feel my skin crawl as he continues to bicker with Penny.

“Snow we are in a _library_ ,” I say quietly, “quit yapping and take it outside.”

His jaw tightens and I try to sit up a bit taller, because I know damn well I’m in the right here. We continue our silent stand off, neither quite backing down. Then something switches on in him, as if an actual light bulb went off and then that stupid smile of his comes back.

 _Thank God I’m sitting down because I think my knees just went a bit weak_.

“Hey you know flowers right?”

“An _astute_ observation Snow.”

“Can you help me? I have an essay about flowers,” he whispers, shuffling over from Penny’s desk to mine, the fight in him gone, now replaced with an earnestness that could disarm warlords. Though I’m not a warlord in the literal sense, I take pride in the fact that I’m the Menace of LSE and I have a reputation to uphold.

“What joke of a course are you on that you need to analyse _flowers_?” I snarl.

“Simon leave the poor guy alone,” Penny tries, but unbeknownst to her I don’t _actually_ want him to leave me alone because I’m my worst enemy and obviously too cooped up in here to remember that Snow was straight.

“Can the three of you just shut the _fuck_ up already?” someone says out loud. The three of us whipped our heads around.

Snow looks ready to fight the guy.

Cat-Eyes (who I assume is Penny) looks mortified.

I’m just offended by the awful belt buckle he’s wearing.

Pushing my chair out as dramatically as I could, I stand up, signalling to Penny to keep an eye on my books before marching out. And since I know _exactly_ the type of guy Snow is, it doesn't take long for him to catch up to me onto the landing outside the silent area.

I fold my arms and lean on the wall, letting Snow see exactly how unenthused I was about this (despite standing here and ready to hear his request), “Well?”

“It’s for an English essay, something about symbolism and the Language of Flowers,” he gesticulates into the air as if it’d help illustrate his lack of a point.

I blink at him, slightly taken aback, “Symbolism? Language of Flowers?”

_What on Earth is LSE teaching these days?_

“I know. Trust me, _I know_ ,” his hands are in his hair again, this time with a bit more forcefully, “I was away from a rugby game and missed the lecture, and they don’t release recordings until the end of term so…I’m kinda fucked.”

“You must be if you’re asking strangers for help,” I mutter.

“Oh c’mon we’re not strangers,” he says sticking his hands into the pockets of his trackies, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, “So…could you help me?”

“What’s in it for me Snow? If you can’t tell, I’m quite busy.”

“Rinsing 70 quid off me not enough?” he chuckles and it’s positively melodic, “coffee, how about that?”

“A coffee for my brilliance? What do you take me for?”

“Just an _occasional_ prick?” he tries, “And there’s something in you capable of compassion?”

“You over-estimate Snow.”

“I bought you flowers.”

I scoff, “No, you bought flowers _from_ me, for someone else mind you. “

“I could re-gift you the flowers if you’re that hung up on it,” he mumbles with a shrug, “Please, Baz.” He’s looking up at me through his lashes and any resolve I had to refuse him melts. One of these days I’ll figure out how to think with the head on my shoulders, but today wasn’t that day.

“Fine, when’s it due?”

“Today, just before midnight,” he says sheepishly, bracing himself for my reaction. Unnecessary because a deadline fighter was practically how I got through uni, though something tells me while I’m the type to edit until I’m no longer allowed to, Snow simply left it until the last minute and submitted whatever.

“Grab your stuff, I’ll see you downstairs. You’ll need all the help you can get.”

* * *

Snow has the attention span of a child. No, not even a child, because all my siblings have more focus than he does. Every few taps of the keyboard, he’d try to draw me into conversation. Usually opening with a question about what a certain flower might mean (dandelions – faithfulness or happiness) then descending into banal chit-chat. I do my best to _look_ disinterested and immersed into my own studying, but I find myself stealing glances at him. The way his brows knit together as he drums his fingers on the table, finding the right words to use; how he chews on his cheek as he darts between his books, trying to find the quotes he made annotations on; the way his eyes had this crinkle in them when he catches me looking at him.

He catches me more often than I like. And I’m running out of excuses (“Are you studying or practicing your drumming skills?” “You mouth breather, please just stop breathing altogether.” “Watching you type is like watching Bambi learn how to walk.”)

He has an hour left, and frankly I don’t know if he’s going to make it, but I’ve helped where I could, therefore absolving myself of all responsibility. My own revision plans have basically flown out the window, but I absolve myself of responsibility on that front too because of Snow’s magnetism.

“Say, Baz,” he starts again, eyes not leaving his screen for once, “how come you know so much about flowers?”

“I’m a _florist_ you moron.”

“Yeah I know that but you know a _shocking_ amount,” he says, one hand still on the keyboard and the other holding a half demolished Mint Aero, “but not just what they mean, but what they mean in books and shit.”

“I…like to read,” I say, “I considered studying English.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know.” There was a bit of chocolate left at the corner of his mouth, and the fact that we are suddenly asking each other insightful questions made feel self-conscious – of my words, of my posture, of the heat underneath my turtleneck.

“Why did you pick English then?”

“I dunno.”

“Precisely. If neither of us know why, why not just focus Snow. Your deadline’s in less than an hour.”

With the awkward silence that descends I almost wish I could bring back the incessant chatter. But Snow stops talking to me, deciding that the literal eleventh hour was the time to sprint to finish his essay. Acknowledging that the moment was gone (if there even was one), I push Snow out of my mind and back to my notes.

I don’t know how long passes but the zen I found with legal positivism was rudely interrupted when Snow actually jumped from his chair, punching the air. “Suck it!”

“Christ Snow you’re in public,” I snap, “behave!”

“Don’t give a shit, it’s done. I’m done and I’m free,” he says triumphantly. He’s packing up his stuff at an alarming pace, “You leaving yet?”

“No,” I say, gesturing at the pile of journal articles I have, “I’ve been derailed this evening by a numpty.”

“You’re the only person left on this planet that still uses that, y’know?”

“Piss off Snow.”

“Prick.”

“You called?” I look up at him, smug smile and raised eyebrow. It’s the face I make when I’m allegedly (with plausible deniability) flirting. I’ll wring my own neck later for giving in, but it’s late, I’m tired and he looks happy and I’ll just allow myself this.

“Thanks Baz,” he says, his voice suddenly soft, “I’ll…see you around?”

“Unfortunately, you now know where to find me.”

“That I do,” his heaves his backpack onto his shoulders, but he doesn't make a move to leave.

“Do you need me to tell how to leave this library?”

“Don’t be a twat,” he says, “Coffee. I promised.”

I was about to brush him off, but given how much I joke about getting an IV to drip feed caffeine directly into my bloodstream, I cannot in good conscience refuse free coffee. But that doesn't mean I’m going to make it easy for him, “I’ll only accept it if you get my coffee order correctly.”

“Aight, so what is it?”

“That’s for me to know, and you to find out.”

“Run along now, Snow.”

“You _are_ prickly you know that?”


	3. The Rose Prick

What first started off as me trying to get the last word in with Snow has evolved into…a _thing_. Two days after he handed in his essay, he hunted me down in the library and presented to me (very proudly) a cup of coffee.

“What is this?” I whispered.

“Your coffee,” he whispered, “I’m pretty sure I nailed it.”

I eyed the cup suspiciously and after taking a sip I almost spat it out all over my laptop. For one thing, it was searing hot and I’m certain I burned the roof of my mouth. But more importantly it was unbelievably bitter.

He got me an espresso, a large cup of espresso.

People always say be careful what you wish for, and though I wish for caffeine most of the time, I didn’t need the human equivalent of nitro fuel in a Costa cup.

“This is hideous Snow. I’m brooding not…bitter.”

He left after that, in a huff.

And that’s how I ended up sitting at the far back corner of the library most days after lectures and tutorials, waiting for Snow to turn up with yet another disappointing cup of coffee. I say they’re disappointing, but I always finish them. It’s also just an inconvenient fact that my heart soars just a bit every time I see his bronze curls enter into the library and he makes a bee line for me.

Too quickly form my comfort, Simon Snow has melted my cold cold heart. And it sucks because he probably has no idea just how much I look forward to that stupid cup of coffee every day.

To make matters worse, he’s started studying _with_ me, and where there’s Snow, his friend Penny would be. Admittedly, it has its perks – if I ever get held up in a lecture, I can be sure that Penny would save “my” seat. (Snow has not shown up first _ever_ – it’s like he materialises when I cross the threshold into the library).

Today is no different, Snow shows up ten minutes after I do and in his hand two coffees. I raise my eyebrow at him as he hands me my cup – I can smell the cinnamon without opening the lid. Evidently Snow’s getting creative and buying me Christmas specialty lattes now, which is a shame because of how close he is to getting my favourite drink, but in the wrong season.

“Gingerbread latte?” I ask, to which he just nods. Having been shushed by virtually everyone on the floor by now, Snow’s learned some tact about the (literal) unspoken rules of the library. That or Penny gave him an earful after the time when he handed me a rose and vanilla latté from God knows where and he was huffy for a good hour since I laughed so hard at how twee he was.

I take a sip, and find it largely inoffensive a drink and do my best to mimic Snow’s trademark shrug, indication enough that he’s missed the mark again.

“Just bloody tell me,” Snow whispers as he digs out his snacks (I’ve seen him take out a book maybe once, the rest of it – all snacks), “You’re an expensive habit Baz.”

“Oh if only you knew how to quit me.”

Penny stifles a giggle and I ignore her. I should know by now that the silent treatment doesn’t really work when it comes to Snow. Despite his inability to string together a sentence (by my standards), he loves a chinwag and I’m just glad my work hasn’t suffered for it because bickering with Snow is such a _fun_ past time – even if it’s mostly through glares and eye rolls.

“Oh yeah, you free Friday? We’re hav – ”

“Simon…” Penny says quietly. I hear her ripping out a page of her notepad, followed soon after with the sound of Snow scribbling something in his chicken scratch (the guy never learned cursive it seems…or how to hold a pen _properly_.)

And soon a note appears under my nose: _Friday. Flat Christmas party. You free?_

I can count on one hand how many parties I’ve been to. Which I’m not sure is depressing or highly evolved. Drinking with Dev and Niall in our flat does not constitute as a party. We’re English, it’s what we call a casual Wednesday evening. I immediately weigh my options – sitting in the library and letting yet another weekend roll by, or be a uni student for _once_ and actually attempt at being sociable.Also seeing Snow making a fool of himself would be great fun.

So I give a small nod and Snow practically splits his face with his smile, somehow looking warm and sunny despite the miserable weather that constitutes winter in London. He’s bouncing in his seat as he digs out his headphones and laptop and actually making use of his time in the library.

I pointedly ignore the look that Penny was shooting me.

Snow needs dumber friends because I’m pretty transparent at this point.

* * *

I know I’m making bigger deal out of it that I need to – it’s a simple house party and there are basically no stakes. That’s what any rational being would think, but the last couple of weeks have thrown me for a loop and any rationality I’m capable of has long gone. (I hope it’s enjoying its holiday in the Maldives or something because it sure as hell isn’t here with me).

At the flower shop, Snow came into my place of work, and it was just the two of us. In the library, that’s practically my dominion and Snow was a passing guest. Both times I had home advantage, but now the tables have turned, and I’m not too proud to admit that I’m nervous.

 _Get over yourself Pitch and ring the buzzer_.

“Baz!” Snow calls out to me when I enter the flat, pushing his way pass his friends, cider in hand, “You made it!”

“East London is hardly a treacherous journey Snow,” I say, leaning heavily on my snark in an attempt to hide my nerves. I’d like to thank Strongbow for making my job a bit easier this evening because Snow sure looks _merry_.

“Coats in Penny’s room – follow me,” he says before making his way through the small group of people gathered in their tiny hallway. Snow introduces me to his friends as I make my way behind him, saying hellos and being civil. Thank God Snow was sticking close to me saving me from a particularly energetic American who pulled me into a hug before I even got his name. Optimism and unabashed friendliness is not my forte, and this lanky American with glasses two sizes too big embodied it. Americana in its most sanitised version.

“Shep, promise he’ll be back, just need to get him parked with a drink.”

“I don’t need babysitting Snow,” I mutter as I untangle myself and hurry after Snow.

Thankfully, after I drop my coat off, Snow doesn’t leave my side, allowing me to pretend I’m not sticking to him like a lifeline. Dev once told me I’m great fun at parties…once I warm up and get the stick out of my arse. But Snow was entirely too distracting for me to even think about letting my guard down.

It truly was a testament to my will power because Snow has this quality about him that makes him irresistible – people just gravitate toward him, and I don’t think they quite understand why either. He’s not the funniest, he’s not the brightest, yet the room orbits around him – the entire party did.

Well there are always exceptions. I see Penny sitting on the couch, chatting animatedly with precisely two people and I politely dip out of the conversation Snow was having with his rugby lads. Good thighs, but collectively too many concussions to sustain a conversation. Slotting myself onto what little room there was left on the sofa, I try to catch on to what Penny was talking about with the other two. Chatting was a charitable way of describing it because it sounds like a full blown debate – but the girl with pink hair was giving it as good as Penny was.

“I told you!”

“After I walked in on you two on the kitchen table…we ate off that thing.”

“Trix, it was a _bit_ humiliating.”

“Et tu Keris?”

“Baz, you’re a reasonable man,” Penny says with wine stained lips, “tell Trixie there is an etiquette when it comes to living in halls and inviting people over.”

I’m not quite sure how much I want to get involved because Trixie, Keris, who I assume is Trixie’s girlfriend and Penny were looking at me for an answer and I knew whatever I say, it’d the wrong answer. I default to looking incredulous and taking a swig of my drink and simply deflect, “I take it you used to live together then?”

“Halls,” Penny says, “We’re friends now, but you should’ve seen us. Practically – ”

“Oh my god,” Trixie suddenly climbs up onto the sofa, “she’s here. She came!” Following Trixie’s line of sight, I crane my neck to see who’s suddenly zapped everyone’s attention.

I look at Penny confusedly as a girl steps into the living room to a chorus of hellos, who simply just says to me “Agatha.”

“Is that supposed to mean anything to me?” I lean back into the lumpy sofa.

“I’m glad she came, missed her,” Trixie says.

“Just because they broke up doesn’t mean we all stop being friends. And honestly, with those two, who knows if they’re on or off today, ” Keris muttered.

“Straight people,” I say to lighten the mood, to which Keris and Trixie just giggle.

When I turn to Penny for support, she says nothing but just gives me an undecipherable look and stands up do her duties as host.

My eyes trail behind her and see Snow talking to Agatha, hand on the back of his neck, just like it was when he came into the flower shop.

When he came into the flower shop to get her flowers.

Something triggers my fight or flight response, and one look at Snow smiling at Agatha made me realise there was no fight to be had. So I down the rest of my drink and go to collect my coat, the last thing I wanted to do was spend my Friday evening watching Snow moon over his ex-girlfriend. That’s even more pathetic than my usual solitary confinement in the library.

Snow manages to catch me, “You leaving already?”

I’m one step away from the door, and I just want to get out of this flat, this solar system that revolved around Simon Snow that I had the displeasure of being pulled into, “Yes, had a long day.”

“Oh.”

“Glad the flowers worked at least,” I say after a beat, “A true English Rose, Agatha.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll see you around,” I say before spinning around and exiting.

Jealousy is an ugly, awful parasite that eats at you. Agatha doesn’t warrant my envy and wrath, Snow doesn’t deserve my brand of bitterness stemming from my feelings. If anything, all did was make up this thing with Snow in my head.

The rational decision is to take myself out of the equation.

And I hate it.

* * *

I drag my feet into _Petty in Bloom_. I am hardly the picture of customer service most days, but today was particularly gruelling (in class timed essay for two hours, train cancellations between London and Hampshire, and being caught in between Fiona and Father again over Christmas plans). Suffice it to say I am in no mood to coax people into holiday wreaths or be charming and sell them shit they don’t need.

Then there’s the matter of Snow, who I’ve not spoken to since the party, which granted was only three days ago, but he barrelled into my life with such gusto that now everything seems eerily lonely and quiet without his boundless energy and warmth.

I get the uniform apron on and park myself behind the till. I laugh emptily to myself as I unload my books and notes onto the counter. It’s the last week of this bloody term, so to make a point to myself to prove that I’m capable of having a life outside of my studies, I shove the books back into my bag. Wish Ebb were here to see this - she’d be happy I’m finally doing my job properly for once.

But as it turns out, I have nothing to do. All the Christmas orders have been couriered, and I doubt anyone’s going to come into the flower shop so close to Christmas for an arrangement. I end up staring into the distance, letting the smells of the flowers take over. For all my time here, I don’t think I’ve once appreciated just how _lovely_ a place this was.

The shop is a chaotic explosion of flora. There was a valiant attempt at injecting some holiday cheer, but really it only looks slightly more festive than its usual evergreen meadow aesthetic. Where Ebb’s “tastes’ shines the most though is in her ability to translate tackiness into authenticity. The baubles? A pack from Sainsburys, but one would think Ebb dug them out from her cottage attic or something.

The most commercial bit of this whole Christmas veneer was the music. And today of all days, the shop is playing classic Christmas songs rather than the usual Michael Bublé fare. Then again, there are more objectionable Christmas songs than Judy Garland’s _Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas_ , but it’s just so melancholy and full of hopeful yearning. While perfect for my mood, it didn’t scream Christmas. It’s no wonder they changed the lyrics to make it sound happier.

I find myself humming along, when the bell on the door goes and I sit up, only to see a pair of blue eyes looking back at me. Bronze curls damp from the drizzle outside and his face ruddier than usual, be it from the cold or from running.

Simon Snow.

He’s holding a coffee cup in one hand, and the other was tucked behind his back.

“Snow.”

“Uh…Here’s your coffee,” he says nervously, moving up to the counter, “I...uh…think I got it just in time before the holidays.”

“You don’t need to get me coffee anymore,” I say quietly as he sets down the coffee, “It’s fi – ”

“Just try it.”

I follow his word and take a sip, surprised when the familiar taste of a pumpkin mocha breve reaches my lips.

Dumbstruck, that’s what I am, that Snow figured out my favourite drink. “How?”

“I always knew,” he says and my jaw hits the floor, “Just thought it’d be funny to make you drink some horrible bitter shit. And then it just became an excuse.”

_An excuse for what?_

For once in our time together, I’m the speechless one, and Snow evidently had all the words in the world.

“It’s our thing…right?” he’s beet red now, “anyway, these are for you.”

He pulls out the arm he had tucked away and presents to me a bouquet of stems. Rose stems to be exact.

“Did something happen to the rest of it in transit?” my heart is hammering inside me but, the visual of the “bouquet” was … something to behold of.

“No,” he says quickly, “Listen Baz, I – I had a whole thing prepared, dammit.”

I can’t believe I’m standing in a flower shop whilst Judy fucking Garland is singing the most gut-wrenching rendition of _Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas_ as Snow presented me with the strangest bouquet I’ve seen.

Realising that it’s just as hard for him to vocalise his thoughts as it is for me to process just where this might be going, I pull out every ounce of sincerity I have and say softly, “It’s okay Snow, just use the words you have. They’ll do. I promise.”

“You said Agatha’s an English Rose, and she is. Stunning, lovely and spirited. But uh, this isn’t about her.”

Something tells me that he didn’t plan whatever he was about to say by showering his ex with compliments.

“Thing is, roses are beautiful, soft, and strong in their own way. But I’m awfully good at breaking things,” he says, still holding out the stems, which I note still have the thorns on them. “But stems, it’s a different kind of strength, y’know? And prickly, sharp thorns and all that. And I’m a terrible boyfriend so I need someone who can deal with that. Someone like you.”

“Simon I – ”

“No, not like you. Just you. You’re the one I want, and I know you’d be bored out of your mind if I just gave you flowers so…here.”

I’m at a loss for words, waiting for something to happen to pull me out of this awfully sweet dream that I must be having. But I don’t bolt up in bed – this was real. And Simon Snow was still standing in front of me, his perfect collection of words ringing in my ears.

I stop thinking and just rummage around, and without waiting a moment longer, I all but slam a slightly squashed mistletoe onto the counter. I’m blushing but I don’t care. If Snow can be brave and deliver all _that_ , then I can be brave for myself just this once.

“Mistletoe?” he asks.

“Like you said,” I take the bouquet from him, pretending to smell the roses (as it were), “I need an excuse.” I don’t bother to hide my grin when Simon smiles at me.

“You know, it doesn’t count if it’s hung up right?” he leans over the counter slightly.

“I’m sure we’ll manage,” I close the gap between us and press my lips against his, smiling into the kiss.

Christ, I’m living a charmed life.


End file.
